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eccles
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22-01-2020, 05:06 PM
1

Part 2

When it snowed Dog and I would dash outside in a frenzy of joy and take turns sliding down the path. I had a distinct advantage here, being more in control of two feet than he was with his four, but he loved to try, more often than not coming to an ungraceful halt all tangled up in his own tail and paws. Have you ever heard a dog laugh? It’s the most wonderfully gruff, heart felt, deep seated rumble of sheer delight. It would echo round the whole garden and I swear I saw leaves shake with the giggles.

You may be wondering what my parents thought of Dog and his thus-far hidden talents. The fact is, only I heard him. It’s hard to explain, but dogs can, and do, only speak to people (I hesitate to say “owners”) they feel will appreciate them and not – well, freak out I guess.

Being an only child whose parents were so preoccupied with careers, committees, coffee mornings, and in dad’s case, his nubile PA, I had formed a desperate and needy bond with Dog right from the moment mum brought him home, nine inches of smooth chocolate velvet with enormous white paws and creamy soft ears with a delicate tracery of rose pink veins. I touched his chest with a tiny finger and felt his heart steadily pounding away, ready to give itself to me, and I fell in love with the certain knowledge that this exquisite living creature with its leathery button nose, milky unfocused eyes and soft mouth would be the lifelong friend I yearned for.

Dog didn’t always talk to me. Like humans, there were times when he felt no need to fill the spaces, when I was immersed in a book or wrestling with arithmetic homework. After all, what did he know about long division? I always knew when he was ready, though. He would place a gentle paw on my arm, leg or sometimes on my cheek if we were lying down, and when he had my attention up would come the eyebrow as if asking permission to interrupt. One Sunday afternoon was such a time. Mum and dad were both in for a change, mum flicking quickly and disinterestedly through a glossy magazine as though she was determined to find some vital article and was irritated that it had been stolen, dad with his thumb on his mobile, either deleting or accessing a message that mum mustn’t see. Dog patted me softly. “Do you ever wonder about those spots in the sky?” he asked quietly. “How do you mean, Dog?” I replied. “Do you mean the stars?” “Stars, yes” he murmured. “So beautiful, stars. Like pinholes that have a light behind them. I wonder if other dogs live up there, you know, when we – when we’re not here any more.” I was old enough to understand about death of course, but still child enough to consider the subject so distant to anyone in my own life as to be unimaginable. “I don’t think so, Dog” I told him. “Our Sunday School teacher says we all go to Heaven, and that’s way past the stars. A sort of, well, palace, I think. Kind of.”

Dog considered this for a moment, his head on my lap, ears splayed out either side like the deflated sails of some grounded vessel. “I don’t think I’d want to go to a star” he said thoughtfully. “They look cold and unfriendly. I’d want somewhere warm, somewhere that smells of good things like worms and biscuits and you.” I caressed his long back, running his tail through my fingers and spreading out the fans of fur like angels wings over the sofa. “That’s what I want too,” I declared. “Only not the biscuits or worms. Anyway, we’re friends for life, Dog. Life means forever, right?” “Right,” Dog replied, rolling onto his back for some serious tummy tickling.


The winter I turned fifteen, Dog had his birthday. I wasn’t sure of his age because of course their years are different to ours, but the tips of his ears had grey flecks on them, like light snow flurries that had settled and forgotten to melt. He walked more slowly now, and told me one day that although he could smell just as well as ever, his eyesight was less sharp, and shapes sometimes confused him. We took him to the vet often, and were given various pills to feed him, which naturally he hated. “Come on Dog, be a brave little soldier” I’d coax, when he steadfastly refused to open his mouth. He would start to respond with some withering comment along the lines of “if they’re so nice, YOU take them” and the second his mouth opened, I’d pop the chalky pill in, smothered in Marmite which he loved. All in all, he took it good naturedly. After all, when I was laid up for weeks with ‘flu and feeling like hell, his soft touch on my arm at pill taking time let me know I wasn’t alone. It’s what best friends did, support each other.

Then one morning, quite without warning, everything changed. I woke groggily as usual, prompted by Dog’s delicate paw and his greeting along the lines of “time to sleep when you’re old, poppet” which was his idea of humour. Except this particular morning I couldn’t swing my skinny legs over the side of the duvet – couldn’t move my arm to caress Dog’s ears. My limbs had turned to lead overnight, there was a grinding ache in my joints and brilliant flashing lights behind my eyes. Dog knew immediately something was wrong. He brought his big head right up close to me, his soft wise eyes scanning my frightened face, his ears at half mast with anxiety. “What is it, darling?” he murmured. “Don’t try to move, I’ll be right back.” He carefully climbed onto the floor and ran as quickly as he could down to where my mother was moving round the kitchen. I could hear his frantic barking and whining, I could hear mother clattering up the stairs and her panicky high-pitched voice asking me what the matter was. What I was unable to do was reply. What I wanted to say was that above all I needed Dog with me, his soft loose skin, the way his petalled ears would tickle my face, the marvellous black cushions of his large paws, and his simple, loyal and loving words of comfort only I could hear. “Get out of the way!” Mother snapped distractedly, “The last thing we need is you lumbering about the room and getting in the way.” Dog turned to me anxiously, placed his front paws on the side of the bed and tried to whisper something to me; mother grabbed him by his scruff and hauled him out of the door.


When I was around nine or ten I had the most frightening dream where I had somehow been hypnotised by an evil monster and, in a totally helpless state, was stuffed into a box and left in this tiny space, unable to breathe or move. I awoke sweating and crying with fear, reaching out for Dog as a matter of course, and knowing that as long as I could touch his back, smooth down his sleep-ruffled spine and hear his none-too-delicate snoring, then I wasn’t really dead at all. Now my nightmare had become reality.

During the next few months I gradually became stronger, the terrible ache in my limbs lessened and, with help, was at last able to raise myself up onto my pillows. I’d had some sort of virus with a very long complicated name, and apparently had been very lucky to have recovered. Mum fussed round me with unusual solicitousness and even dad took time away from his work – and his PA – to sit by my bed and read to me. Of course, novel as all the attention was, the only pal I wanted was Dog. He had spent the entire time lying outside the bedroom door which was as close as he’d been allowed. I don’t know how I knew he’d been there, but I swear I heard his soft breathing and, once, in my delirium, a quiet sort of humming, as if he needed me to know he was communicating his love to me through the panelling.

Eventually he was allowed in to see me. He approached me quietly and with dignity, with liquid eyes brimming over with relief and what looked suspiciously like tears, although he was pretty elderly and, like grandpa, perhaps his eyes were just watery.
“Hello, darling” he said, nuzzling his head against my thin hand and screwing his muzzle up like he always did when he smiled. And so I grew in strength day by day, and Dog alongside me grew in love, although the more robust and energetic I became, the slower and more cautious was Dog. We would still roll around on the grass together and play tag, and his ridiculous ears would fly round his head like wild feathers but he tired more easily and sometimes seemed not to want my company at all, and would just curl up quietly under the apple tree. When I’d run up and try to tease him into some energetic game he would half open one rheumy eye and whisper “Not just now, poppet. Not just now.” I’d persevere for a few minutes, tug his ears, poke him or drag a leaf across his face, then rather huffily run off to start some other boyish game on my own.


I was back to full and noisy health by the summer of my sixteenth birthday, and after breakfast dashed outside feeling quite inexplicably joyous. I was grown up – I had a great shiny bike that must have cost dad a fortune, and I couldn’t wait to try it out. Dog was lying on the bottom step, half on and half off the grass, and the morning sun lay on his silky fur like a dusting of gold. “Hello old chap!” I cried. “It’s my birthday today, but you don’t seem to have bought me a card!” This was our annual joke, and one year Dog actually attempted a muddy paw print on my exercise book. We chuckled for hours about that. I knelt down to stroke his back and caress his cheek. He opened his eyes slowly, seemed to make a huge effort and breathed into my ear,
“Just worms, biscuits and you.” And died, there on the step. The day I grew up.
Maver-rik
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22-01-2020, 06:03 PM
2

Re: Part 2

That is beautiful eccles. Am wiping away a tear.
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22-01-2020, 07:22 PM
3

Re: Part 2

This is a remarkable piece of writing. It works on different levels. The central premise is a fable that is sustained in a way that one wants to believe that it is true. The deep companionship between an only child and a pet is the basis for this fantasy. In a different age from our own it would have been published in the widely available medium of print. We have been privileged to read it in the more restricted medium of social media.
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22-01-2020, 07:22 PM
4

Re: Part 2

Oh! That is a lovely story, if sad at the end.
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Losos
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22-01-2020, 09:38 PM
5

Re: Part 2

Originally Posted by Mr Magoo ->
This is a remarkable piece of writing. It works on different levels. The central premise is a fable that is sustained in a way that one wants to believe that it is true. The deep companionship between an only child and a pet is the basis for this fantasy. In a different age from our own it would have been published in the widely available medium of print. We have been privileged to read it in the more restricted medium of social media.
Completely agree, yes we are priviliged to read it on here but how much nicer for the writer if it had been in print and maybe the start of a writing career. I've always felt the internet does not do justice to genuinely good writing 'tho these two pieces are just that.

Thank you Eccles for these lovely essays, and do think about putting your talents to further use. As a dog lover they touched me deeply and there sure ain't much that I can say that about today
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23-01-2020, 02:05 AM
6

Re: Part 2

You should publish this. This is golden. You are a beautiful writer.
eccles
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23-01-2020, 07:29 AM
7

Re: Part 2

Now I'm almost in tears - those were lovely compliments, thanks so much to you all who liked it. I've written loads of short stories and poems, most of my stories tend to be either humorous or a bit dark, but I've not written for ages. It's too difficult to break into the publishing world, although I did publish some of my poems as e-books - didn't get much interest there though. I'll try and dig out some more stories but do apologise beforehand if you've already seen them.
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23-01-2020, 11:03 AM
8

Re: Part 2

Originally Posted by eccles ->
Now I'm almost in tears - those were lovely compliments, thanks so much to you all who liked it. I've written loads of short stories and poems, most of my stories tend to be either humorous or a bit dark, but I've not written for ages. It's too difficult to break into the publishing world, although I did publish some of my poems as e-books - didn't get much interest there though. I'll try and dig out some more stories but do apologise beforehand if you've already seen them.
Bring 'em on. I feel guilty getting them for free!..
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Losos
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23-01-2020, 08:04 PM
9

Re: Part 2

Originally Posted by keezoy ->
Bring 'em on. I feel guilty getting them for free!..
So do I

Although I've never tried to publlish anything I do kinda know what you mean. A lot depends on contacts and a good agent and these are things in which 'luck' and 'timing' play a big part.

J.K. Rowling is a good author but she was 'lucky' to pick the only publisher who was looking for books of her type (at the time) and so the 'timing' was right.
 

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